


interludes

by fulmentus



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, everyone else will make appearances later, loosely connected one-shots, not at all in chronological order, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2019-11-14 04:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18045059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulmentus/pseuds/fulmentus
Summary: a collection of tumblr prompts & one-shots (ratings vary between G and T).





	1. nightmares

Shaw wakes to a whimper, so quiet she almost doesn’t catch it. She blinks, eyes focusing in the dark, and waits. Listens for the sound again. It happens again, and the blankets pull from her body, curling around Root, who sleeps beside her.

It’s faint, the whimpering, but Root’s shifting is anything but. The bed creaks underneath them as Root twists. Shaw reaches out before she thinks much of it.

Her hand finds Root’s shoulder through the cocoon of blankets. She shakes it. “Root.”

Root jerks away, sharp gasps bordering on cries escaping her lips. Her body shudders and shudders beneath the blankets (Shaw wonders what she could possibly be dreaming about). Shaw presses her fingers more firmly against Root’s shoulder then.

“ _Root_.”

Root startles awake, panting, chest heaving, pushing at the corner of the covers; she shoves them from her body. Shaw doesn’t remove her hand, simply lets it stay there as Root regulates her breathing, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed.

Shaw watches her face in the darkness, catalogs every micro-expression she sees cross Root features — it’s predominantly fear, anxiety. About what, Shaw isn’t certain.

“You okay?”

Root runs the back of her hand over her forehead, sucks in another quivering breath. She lets out a watery laugh, something frayed at the edges and wavering at the core. Shaw doesn’t like the sounds at all.

“Just bad dreams,” Root murmurs, turning her head to look at Shaw.

Shaw finally drops her hand from Root’s shoulder, draws it back to herself. She doesn’t know what she should say. She’s never had a bad dream — maybe one when she was a child, after her father died, but it’s hazy and indistinct.

“Do you—” Shaw pauses, works her jaw for a moment. What is she supposed to do here? “Do you want to talk about it?”

That sounds right.

(Sounds like something her mother would ask her.)

She sees the corner of Root’s lip twitch, curve upward. Doesn’t shy away when Root traces her fingers along the curve of her jaw, something reverent in her expression.

“It’s silly.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t listen.”

Through the shadows, Shaw sees the lump form in Root’s throat, follows it as she swallows it down. The fingertips against her cheek stop in their motions, and Root simply stares. Stares and stares and stares until Shaw reaches up, catches Root’s hand in hers.

“Root?”

Root shakes her head, hair in disarray across the pillows. “It’s fine, Shaw.” Her fingers slide against Shaw, twining them together.

Shaw lets it lie for now.

—

Drifting in and out of sleep, settled along the very edges of it, Root feels Shaw stiffen beside her. And she recognizes it — knows what it entails — and she immediately pushes herself upright, thoughts of rest forgotten.

She scans Shaw’s face, watching, watching, watching, and waiting for Shaw’s eyes to snap open.

They do, and they dart around the dark corners of the room, to the door where Bear is sleeping a little ways beyond it. Her chest rises and falls in rapid succession, motions stilted and jagged.

But Root doesn’t touch her, knows that if she reaches for Shaw too soon, it will simply exacerbate her ire.

(Shaw hates Root seeing her like this.

Since she’s returned from Samaritan she has done her best to prevent Root from knowing anything about her _issues_ , as Shaw referred to them the first time Root soothed her from the clutches of a nightmare.)

Once Shaw’s breathing evens out, Root inches her hand toward Shaw’s bare arm, splays her fingers across her wrist.

Shaw doesn’t react. Simply slides her gaze to Root’s.

Root reads the action as a go-ahead, and loosely folds her fingers around Shaw’s wrist, feels the steady pulse of her heart beneath her hand. She starts to gently rub her thumb along the underside of Shaw’s wrist, monitoring Shaw’s face for any change.

Shaw glances at their hands for a second, glances at Root — and Root gazes back, watching the shadows shift along the planes of Shaw’s face. Stoic features she can trace with closed eyes.

Root never once thought Shaw was weak like this. Vulnerable and raw, but never weak.

Beautiful, perhaps.

Shaw’s skin is warm beneath Root’s palm, and Root continues her ministrations, moves to press closer against Shaw’s side. The tension eventually uncoils from Shaw’s frame and she seems to almost sag with it.

Root lifts her other hand to curl her fingers around long strands of hair that have escaped Shaw’s ponytail.

“Go back to sleep, Sweetie,” she whispers. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Shaw’s eyes never leave hers, her wrist never twists out of Root’s light grasp, and she nods. One jerk of her chin before her eyes are falling shut again.

Root settles more comfortably on her side, hand slipping from Shaw’s hair. Her other hand remains curled almost protectively around Shaw’s, and she rests her head back on her pillow, content to watch over Shaw as she returns to the clutches of slumber.


	2. off-balance

Root finds herself in front Shaw’s apartment not knowing exactly how she got there.

Her steps are unsteady, wobbly with every motion, every placement of one foot in front of the other. The Machine is a comforting presence, humming quietly through her implant, but Root can’t help but reach up. Brush the tips of her fingers along the scar behind her ear.

( _Don’t touch it_ , Shaw says, pulling Root’s hand away from the fresh bandage.)

Root can’t help it, can’t help but touch it — feel the tangibility, the _realness_ , of it. Can’t help but be reminded by the wall of silence that greets her when the Machine doesn’t speak.

She sighs, shuffles from one foot from the other. She should knock on the door or leave, instead of standing outside and inevitably attracting attention. Root lifts her shoulders, puts on her best crooked grin, and knocks.

It takes a second, five tops, before the knob is twisting and Shaw is standing in front of her looking vaguely annoyed and unsurprised.

“Root.”

“Hi, Shaw.” Root wiggles her fingers in greeting. “Mind if I come in?”

Shaw rolls her eyes, but she steps aside, letting Root through.

Root goes to enter, one foot already across the threshold. She stumbles on her second step, nearly tripping, but Shaw catches her around the arm, tugs her upright.

“Are you drunk?”

“On your presence? Always,” Root flirts, trying to keep her balance. She pretends that the slight breathlessness she feels now has nothing to do with how close Shaw is to her.

Shaw shoves her arm away in disgust. She pivots on her heel, walks away, disappearing into the kitchen around the corner. Root merely smiles after her, slipping out of her boots.

When she steps into the other room, Shaw is at the kitchen counter nursing a beer. Root watches as she sets the bottle down and turns her attention back to her.

“Implant still giving your problems?”

Root stops in her tracks, lips parting in surprise. She lifts her hand automatically, reaching for the scar, but the look on Shaw’s face stops her halfway through.

“A little,” Root admits, dropping her hand and turning away.

It shouldn’t. She shouldn’t be so bothered by it — she doesn’t need both ears to serve the Machine, not when the Machine will always protect her. What’s one ear in the service of Her? What does it matter?

(She ignores the unease in her chest, the urge to constantly brush her hair away from her temple, trace the mark left by Control.)

She sees Shaw move in her peripheral, startles when she appears in front of her, head tilted up and eyes flicking between hers.

“Shaw?”

Shaw’s expression gives nothing away, as neutral and passive as always. But her eyes don’t leave Root’s face, continue to study, and Root doesn’t know what she’s looking for.

“Your balance issues,” Shaw starts, propping her hands on her waist as her eyes finally shift from Root’s. “I can help with them.”

The breath whooshes from Root’s lungs, and oh, she hadn’t expected that.

—

Between irrelevant and relevant numbers alike, Shaw helps Root adjust to the imbalance caused both by the unnecessary stapedectomy and the implementation of the cochlear implant.

It starts with easy exercises, and though Root has always known Shaw was an excellent doctor, it’s always different when she sees her like this: going out of her way to help Root.

(It makes her breath catch and her chest warm.)

She relishes in her moments with Shaw, despite always feeling off balance in a completely new way around her. Relishes in the time spent because it won’t last for long. Not with Samaritan on its way.

Where Shaw pushes Root to focus, Root pushes back with over the top innuendos, enjoying the way Shaw rolls her eyes at each one. And oh, it feels so familiar, the emotion that floods through her when she’s with Shaw.

(Later, Root remembers it’s how she felt with Hanna. That warm, all-encompassing feeling.

And the realization has Root smiling even wider as she blows out the kneecaps of her latest number — the realization that she has a friend. After decades of forsaking humanity, she has a friend. In both the Machine and now Shaw.)

—

She doesn’t stumble this time when she walks into Shaw’s apartment. Root grins, leans into Shaw’s space, watching her face shift underneath the cast of fluorescent light spilling through the open door behind them.

“Come to dinner with me,” Root says. “As a thank you.”

Shaw shakes her head, lets out a low chuckle. “Fine. As long as you're paying.”

And Root is once again set off balance when Shaw brushes passed her, deliberately knocking their arms together as she goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i know how to use colons? probably not.


	3. witching hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Maybe the supernatural is affecting people’s temper,” Root jokes, knocking their arms together._
> 
> _Shaw shoots her an unimpressed look._

****Shaw wakes to an empty bed. Which isn’t new by any means.

It’s normally like that — the space beside her vacant, the receding warmth of Root’s presence beneath her fingers — but Shaw isn’t aware of any new numbers. Maybe the Machine called one in early.

Shaw blinks at the thought, reaches for her phone. She taps the screen. Huh, she doesn’t think the Machine would pull Root out of bed at this hour. Shaw swings her legs off the bed, stretches her arms.

She pads out of the room, footsteps slow and measured, careful as she steps around Bear’s sleeping form in the darkness.

She stops.

Root’s sitting at the kitchen counter, her silhouette cutting a line through the darkness, her legs kicking back and forth off the stool.

“What are you doing up?” Shaw asks as she moves toward her.

Root pushes her spoon through what Shaw now sees is a bowl of cereal, tilts her head and props it up with one hand.

“Listening,” Root murmurs.

Shaw doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and Root doesn’t offer an explanation. Shaw settles for filling up a glass of water, swallowing it down in one gulp. It helps clear the lingering fog of sleep that steals across her mind.

She glances back at Root, catches her returning her gaze with a lazy one of her own. Shaw wonders what she’s listening for, wonders if Root would answer if she asked. She stands on the other side of the counter instead, staring at Root.

And Root merely grins, a crooked little thing. Shaw blinks exhaustion from her eyes, doesn’t look away.

—

Root’s eyes go unfocused, and she listens to the Machine as She rattles off a number — hastily, messages coming through one after the other, almost as though She’s apologizing.

“Number?”

Root blinks, releases her grip on her spoon. She hums in affirmation, pushing off the stool and arching her back with a satisfying pop.

“Right now?”

And oh, Shaw looks disgruntled at the thought of having to step outside at this hour. Root can’t fault her for that, for the exhaustion that kept her from sleeping still edges its way through her limbs.

She hears Shaw’s annoyed sigh, listens as she follows her back into the bedroom. They go through the motions mechanically — changing out of their sleeping clothes, reaching for their respective weapons — and head out into the night.

—

The city is slow-going at night, most people holed up in bars and drinking the night away, or ambling about the streets, trying to find their way home.

It’s peaceful, in its own unique way. Like most of New York.

Root fights a yawn, tucks her hands deeper in her jacket pockets. She really should have tried to catch more sleep earlier.

“There should be an off-time for murder,” Shaw grumbles from beside her. “Midnight to six in the morning, no one tries to kill each other.”

Root huffs out a quiet laugh. “That would be nice.”

She listens to the directions the Machine intermittently sends through her implant, turning on street corners where they need to, following alleyways that lead to empty intersections and vacant buildings.

“Who’s our guy?”

“A Leonard Peterson,” Root says, scanning the darkened windows of the ramshackle apartment complex.

“Victim or perp?”

“Most likely a victim, given his history.” Drug dealer, thief, loud mouth. Three things that easily land him in the crosshairs of too many people.

Root can’t stifle her yawn this time, and she squeezes her eyes shut, breathes out slowly, trying to dissipate the weariness that seeps through her every limb. She needs to be awake to shoot people when the time comes.

“Let’s get this over with,” Shaw grunts. “So we can actually sleep.”

Root recognizes the barb, cants her head and offers Shaw a sheepish smile. Shaw merely sighs, moving forward as she pulls her USP compact from its holster. Root lets Shaw lead the way, content to follow and offer quiet instructions from the Machine.

—

Bullets zip by her head, and Shaw ducks behind one of the many dinged up cars in the parking structure. Pops up to fire a few returning shots, smirking when they hit their marks.

Root drops in next to her, unloading empty magazines. She grins at Shaw. “Not so tired now, huh?”

Shaw rolls her eyes (doesn’t refute her).

“Be nice if Reese and Fusco could’ve handled this one.”

“They’re busy with another number.”

Shaw doesn’t stop firing, but she does glance at Root through the corner of her eye, arches a brow.

“This many numbers at two in the morning? What gives?”

She catches sight of the someone’s leg and fires, watching them fall with a loud grunt on the concrete. She swivels her aim to find her next target, while Leonard cowers behind a pillar nearby. Shaw rolls her eyes at him.

“No idea,” Root responds after a moment, shooting a dude trying to sneak up on the number. “Early morning is a prime time for murder?”

Shaw snorts. It _is_  a good hour to put someone down and hide the body.

—

Shaw checks the clock on her phone once they shove Leonard back to his apartment and warm him to keep his head down. A quarter past three in the morning.

“It’s the witching hour.”

She glances up to find Root staring off into the distance, a small quirk to the corner of her lips. Her eyes slide to Shaw, glow in the light as they pass under street lamps.

“Three in the morning has long since been regarded as the witching hour.” Root tilts her head, waves of hair spilling over her shoulder. “It’s thought that paranormal forces are at their strongest at this time.”

Shaw doesn’t say a word, and Root seems to take that as a sign to keep talking. Which, Shaw doesn’t entirely mind. It’s nice to listen to Root prattle on about something as they make their way through the darkened streets of the city.

It settles the adrenaline racing through her blood, allows Shaw time to wind down as they traverse the familiar roads to the apartment.

The occasional car speeds by, their lights glaring against the umbral setting. One honks at them when they cross the street, and Shaw flips them off, keeps walking with Root’s laughter sounding beside her.

“Maybe the supernatural is affecting people’s temper,” Root jokes, knocking their arms together.

Shaw shoots her an unimpressed look, which Root returns with a humorous one of her own. But her smile soon gives was to a yawn, Root bringing a hand up to smother the sound.

Shaw’s stomach chooses to growl then, too, and Root laughs, brows raising in amusement as Shaw shoves forward, outpacing Root’s leisurely walk.

“We could stop to get something,” Root calls from behind her. “I’m sure there are quite a few places open right now.”

Shaw peers over her shoulder, notices the familiar glassy look in Root’s eye as she listens to the Machine. It better not be another number. She’s hungry and tired, and from the way Root keeps yawning, neither of them are up to preventing another murder.

(But if the Machine does give them another one, Shaw knows they’ll save the number regardless. It’s what they do after all.)

“Fine,” Shaw concedes. “Something quick so we can get your ass home. You look ready to pass out.”

Root lips twitch upward at that, a fond smile stretching across them, and Shaw looks away, keeps walking to a diner she knows is still open at this time. She feels Root fall back into stride next to her.

Doesn’t shove her away when her arm brushes Shaw’s with every step they take forward.

—

Root doesn’t even make it to the bed. She collapses straight onto the couch, limbs spread akimbo across the cushions.

And Shaw feels that deeply as she toes off her boots, places them neatly beside the door. Bear scampers over to her after butting at Root’s hands for attention she was too tired to give. His tail wags back and forth Shaw stoops down to run her hands through his fur.

“Hey, bud,” Shaw greets, bending down to scratch him behind his ears.

She momentarily drags her gaze away from Bear, looks up to see Root watching her through half-lidded eyes, a small smile still painted against her lips. Shaw blinks once, twice, and oh, there’s something about Root right now.

Something that has her staring and staring, unable to look away.

Maybe it’s the mussed hair, tresses disheveled from the firefight. Or the way she’s sprawled out, looking soft and inviting in the half-light. Her grin stretches into something knowing, and Shaw rolls her eyes.

She pushes herself to her feet, hands leaving Bear’s fur, moves toward the couch. She stops a scant few inches away, their knees almost touching.

“There’s a bed, you know,” Shaw says.

“Is that a proposition?” Root teases, head canted, eyes glowing with mirth. “You know you don’t have to be coy, Sweetie.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, takes a step back to put more distance between them. If Root wants to stay out here and sleep, that’s her prerogative. Shaw is going to sleep in her damn bed. She makes toward the bedroom, but Root’s fingers curl through her belt loops and hold her place.

Shaw doesn’t bother fighting it when Root pulls her back.

Root tugs her closer still, Shaw sliding between her legs easily. She leans down when Root slips a hand behind her head, pushes herself up. And it’s a lazy, sleepy kind of kiss, one that has their lips sliding together without any further intention.

Root leans back, twisting so that they fall horizontally across the couch. Shaw pushes her hands into the cushions so that she doesn’t crush Root.

And Root simply grins up at Shaw, fingers stroking along the curve of her cheek, slipping into her ponytail. Shaw breathes slowly, hovers over Root, hands on either side of her head.

It’s late, and they’re both tired, but Shaw dips down anyway, sinks into the feeling of Root’s hands in her hair, of her body heat underneath her. Breathes her in.

—

The Machine is quiet in her ear, a low staticky hum that brings Root peace. Not enough to lull her to sleep, unfortunately. She sighs, fists the blanket that pools at her bare waist as she stares up at the ceiling.

Shaw lies beside her, clearly sated from their activities, and Root wishes she felt content enough to drift off with her. Instead, Root’s mind is slow, thoughts sluggish, but sleep won’t claim her. Just like before.

She sighs, lets go of the blanket, and throws an arm over her eyes.

“You good?”

Root twitches at Shaw’s voice, lowers her arm to see Shaw observing her quietly, eyes flickering between her own. Root turns onto her side to face Shaw better, runs an absent hand through her hair.

She doesn’t say anything.

Shaw shifts the blanket slipping down, and Root finds herself distracted by the skin it reveals. Silvery and grey in the faint illumination, Root reaches out, traces her fingers along the familiar scars, the line of Shaw’s spine.

Shaw hums. “Can’t sleep?”

“A little hard to when you’re so distracting,” Root murmurs, eyes focused on her hands skating along Shaw’s back, tracing mindless shapes into her skin.

Shaw lifts her head slightly off her pillow. “Want me to try again?”

And oh, the offer is tempting — feeling Shaw move in and against her is always tempting — but Root can tell that Shaw is on the cusp of sleep. She doesn’t want them both to suffer from lack of sleep later in the day.

Root shakes her head, splays her fingers along Shaw’s side. “One of us needs to actually sleep.”

Shaw appears contemplative for a moment, her brows pinching together in thought. “What you were saying earlier, about the witching hour, talk more about that.”

Root blinks down at Shaw in surprise.

She shrugs a shoulder. “It helps me sleep, maybe it’ll wear you out enough to do the same.”

(Root remembers whispering in the dark, telling Shaw all about the universe, the infinite possibilities that span out before them. Remembers saying anything and everything to help Shaw fall back asleep after her time with Samaritan.)

The Machine murmurs in her implant, providing information in the gaps of Root’s own knowledge, and Root talks. Talks and talks and talks, her voice low and filling the spaces between them.

Shaw dozes beside her, falling into the depths of slumber as Root’s explanations and stories taper off. And oh, maybe there is some merit in the otherworldliness of the witching hour, considering how easily bewitched Root is when it comes to Shaw lying so peacefully in bed beside her.

(Root falls asleep soon after, with the pale light of pre-dawn spilling in through a crack in the window blinds.)


	4. strange confections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Root tilts her head to one side, a grin slowly curling the edge of her mouth. “Do you not like fairs, Sameen?”_
> 
> _Shaw half-heartedly moves out of the way of a pair of kids. When she turns back to Root, she pins her with an annoyed glare. “Do you?”_

****The first thing Shaw processes is the noise — the loud, blaring music playing from crappy speakers. Then comes the people: throngs of children and teenagers and even some clearly drunk adults stumble past them.

It’s too bright, too loud, too much.

(It’s a wonder how Root is even surviving when she’s the one who loathes being around this many people more than Shaw does.)

“Where’s the number?” The sooner they get this over with, the sooner they can leave.

Root tilts her head to one side, a grin slowly curling the edge of her mouth. “Do you not like fairs, Sameen?”

Shaw half-heartedly moves out of the way of a pair of kids. When she turns back to Root, she pins her with an annoyed glare. “Do _you_?”

Root smiles that obnoxious, secretive smile of hers before rocking on her heels, craning her neck as she scans the surrounding crowds of too many goddamn people. She must see something — or the Machine whispered in her ear — because she taps Shaw’s shoulder, nods to the right.

Shaw starts heading to where Root indicated, keeping her motions casual as she weavers through straggling fair-goers. She rolls her eyes when she passes a couple making out in the middle of the path, has to resist shoving them out of the way.

She catches sight of their number disappearing around a merry-go-round. She resists the urge to sigh. Of course she’s going to have to wade through a sea of giggling and screaming children. _Of course_ . She has some strong words for the Machine (all of them starting with _f_ ).

It doesn’t help that she has to do this on an empty stomach. Root promised a nice dinner after this was all over, but Shaw doesn’t think it’s worth the wait.

“Hungry, Sweetie?”

Shaw turns to find Root pulling apart cotton candy beside her. The pink, sugary substance looks gross, but Shaw’s more startled that Root somehow acquired food despite being in pursuit of their number.

“When the hell did you get that?”

“Just now.” Root arches a brow, mouth curving into a smirk. “Would you like some?”

She leans into Shaw’s personal space, staring down at her with gleeful eyes because she _knows_ Shaw hates any form of public affection. Shaw snorts, shakes her head.

“We have a number to catch.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t still have a little fun.”

Root wanders to a nearby booth, the smells from which pull Shaw after her. The scent is greasy and fatty, but she’s hungry enough to eat whatever the hell they serve here. Despite being in need of food, Shaw remains vigilant as Root orders. She’s aware the Machine can notify them of the number’s location, but Shaw keeps an eye out regardless.

These kinds of places rub her the wrong way.

“I can rub you the right way if you’d like,” Root whispers into Shaw’s ear.

Shaw stiffens, turns to level an unimpressed look Root’s way. She hadn't realized she said that out loud. Root doesn’t even appear the slightest bit fazed — amused, mostly.

“Nice try.”

Root laughs before pushing a paper tray into her arms. Shaw glances down at it, eyebrows pinching together. She doesn’t know what to make of the food.

“Root,” Shaw says once Root starts navigating through the crowds, “what is this?”

“Fried food,” Root states simply, resuming the process of pulling apart her cotton candy as they walk. “I promise it won’t kill you.”

“I’ll haunt you if it does.”

“How sweet.”

Shaw huffs out a breath, stares down at the food again. Even with all the glaring lights around, it’s hard to make heads or tails of the contents in the tray. It’s obviously fried, judging by the smell.

Whatever.

Shaw picks one of the items up and pops it into her mouth. Her eye twitches when she bites into it, a strange onslaught of sugar and fried flour overloading her taste buds.

“What the fuck.”

A couple parents nearby shoot Shaw a look before shepherding their children, and Root tuts beside her. When Shaw turns to glare at her, Root merely smiles.

“What _is_ this, Root?”

“Too sweet for you, Sweetie?” Root coos, still smirking.

Shaw kind of wants to punch her (or kiss her) just to wipe that expression of her face.

“Are they fried _Oreos_?” Shaw asks as she chews through the rest of the piece she was eating. “Who the fuck comes up with this stuff?”

It’s an abomination. How dare they insult food like this?

“Here,” Root loops her arm through Shaw’s, tugs her to a different tent. “This might be more your speed.”

“No,” Shaw protests immediately. “Not eating anything you offer me. Not after,” she waves around the fried Oreos, tosses them in a trash can they pass by, “those.”

Root juts her bottom lip out in a pout. “Please?”

“No.”

“Trust me, Sweetie. This will be better.”

(And it feels like years before, when Root would tilt her head, slant her lips. _Trust me_ , she used to say.

Shaw did, reluctantly. She still does.)

“Fine,” Shaw concedes, rolling her eyes again.

Root grins, her face softening, and Shaw has to look away. _Sap_ , she thinks, almost fond. Root disentangles their arms, goes to stand in line, leaving Shaw to find somewhere she doesn’t look too out of place.

She retreats to the limited shadows between two of the tents, wondering when the Machine is going to give them a head’s up on where their number currently is. All the music and screaming is starting to give her a headache.

When Root reappears, she holds sticks of what looks to be meat stuck on their ends. Which okay, better than the fried Oreos, but still weird.

“What are those?”

“Steak,” Root supplies, passing them to Shaw. “On sticks.”

Shaw’s mouth drops open, aghast. “How could they do this to _steak_?”

“Shaw—”

“Putting quality — well, probably not _good_  quality — meat on sticks? A personal insult.”

“Sweetie,” Root interjects, moving so that she stands in front of Shaw, the vibrant colors of the Ferris wheel and string lights gently suffusing with her silhouette, “as endearing as your horror over this is, may I remind you that you’ve eaten steak with your bare hands?”

Shaw pauses, scrutinizes the steak on their sticks. Greasy and blatantly low quality, but they’re still _food_. And meat, at the very least.

She bites into one, and it’s not… bad, necessarily. But it’s not that great either. She’s had a lot better steak in her life — has had a lot better _food_ in general.

“Better?” Root asks, shifting so that she no longer stands in front of Shaw.

“Anything’s better than fried Oreos,” Shaw snorts. “But yeah, better.”

Root smiles again, seemingly content to rest within the narrow darkness that spans between two food tents. She cants her head to the side, hair sweeping across her shoulders, and Shaw watches her distractedly before refocusing on the food — and the mission on hand.

“What happened to the number?”

“It seems as though our good friend Lionel picked them up ten minutes ago,” Root reveals. “Oh and—”

She doesn’t get to finish because Bear barrels into her legs, nearly toppling her over. He barks, runs a circle around Root before coming to a stop in front of Shaw. He looks up at her, tail wagging.

“Hey, bud.” Shaw reaches down to scratch behind his ears. “Where did you come from?”

Lionel comes up to them then, panting, keeled forward with his hands on his knees. “Next time you lunatics make me do your job, I’m not taking the dog.”

“Bear’s a sweetheart.”

“You just can’t keep up with him.”

“You guys are worse than Wonderboy.”

Root laughs, glancing at Shaw from the corner of her eye, lips twitched up in another one of her customary smirks. And, despite being fed some of the worst food she’s had in a while and having to walk around a raucous fairground only to suffer a headache, it could’ve been worse.

Root could have asked her to ride the Ferris wheel.

(She does later, jokingly, and Shaw almost refuses Root’s promise of dinner at her favorite steakhouse out of spite.)

(Root makes it up to her later that night… and early the next morning.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor shaw. also, reese is chilling with the number. fusco didn't just abandon them LOL   
> (i also have a sudden craving for funnel cake rip)


	5. see how the world turns slow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> re-upload of a fic i deleted earlier lmao it was me just trying to practice creating atmosphere. sorry it's not a new one. i've been busy and exhausted. hopefully i'll get something out soon!  
> title of this is from: flashes by the paper kites

The clouds break and rain plummets around you just as you reach the car.

With slippery hands you pull the door open and sigh against the leather, a laugh bubbling on the tip of your tongue, adrenaline running through your veins. Shaw slides into the driver’s seat beside you, mutters something under her breath.

_Great._

Your lips turn up in a faint smile. _At least we dodged the worst of it._

_Car doesn’t deserve to be rained on._

And oh, you almost laugh at the mournful look on Shaw’s face. How she runs her fingers along the steering wheel apologetically.She wipes at the water, half-hearted motions to dry the interior of the car.

You’re content to just watch, the dampness of your clothes sending chills through the layers and settling against your skin. You shiver, turn away for just a moment to survey the rainfall outside.

It’s enchanting in a way:

The smears of color across the ground, lights flaring and wavering in the water’s reflection, bouncing off of the sheets of rain that cascade down, down, down. Cover the earth.

You press your fingertips to the glass, trace lines through the quickly forming condensation, mesmerized. The Machine murmurs something in your ear then, and you blink the water from your eyes, brow pinching.

 _Sweetie,_ you pull your hand away away from the window, return your gaze to Shaw, who is rummaging through her pockets for the car keys, seemingly abandoning her attempts to mop up the worst of the water. _We have another number._

Shaw puts the key in the ignition, hitches a brow, all business. _Where?_

You cant your head to the side as the Machine lists the coordinates. You nod, pull out your phone to punch them in.

_Not too far from here._

—

Shaw looks seconds away from flinging the car door open and strangling the nearest driver, and you spare a split second to wonder if the Machine would send you their number before it happens.

(Not that you’d be too inclined to stop Shaw once she gets going.

She’s a force of nature, and you can’t hope to tame that. Plus, you think with a slight smirk, it’s always a pleasure to watch Shaw work.)

 _Is it that fucking hard to drive?_ Shaw grumbles, annoyed. _It’s just a little water. Not that difficult._

You snort. It’s more than just a little water.

The rain has escalated to a consistent downpour since you left, water hammering against the top of the car, streaking across the windshield. The wipers work furiously to allow some semblance of clarity.

_Not everyone can drive as well as you do, Sweetie._

You don’t move to touch her, but you shift your weight and lean against the center console rather than the window, tilt your head a little. She glances down at you, and you can’t help the grin that curls the corner of your lips.

She shakes her head, huffs. _Whatever_. _If the number dies, it’s on these assholes._

You sputter out a laugh (the Machine mutters light admonishments in your ear).

—

The rain eases from its downpour as you exit the city limits, the winding roads surprisingly bereft of most other drivers — the occasional car or taxi passes you by, but other than that, it’s relatively clear.

You hear Shaw sigh, relieved at the absence. Her shoulders relax, the grip she had on the wheel loosening.

You lean back, content to simply watch Shaw in her element, a fond smile settling the curve of your mouth.

(You’ve always found it adorable how much Shaw loves her cars.)

The illumination of the dash casts shadows across her face, highlighting the cut of her jaw and the curve of her cheek. (You stop yourself from reaching out, from breaking the image.) The ethereal sort of beauty of her.

_What?_

You startle out of your thoughts, see her glance sidelong at you. You shift, finding a more comfortable position as you turn sideways to face her, shoulder pressing into the back of your chair.

 _Nothing, Sam,_ you murmur.

_Creeper._

But you see the faint curl of her lips, the slight grin in she tries to hide in the shadows.

Her stomach growls through the beat of silence, and you shake your head, laugh a little. Shaw rolls her eyes, looks through the rain-splattered windshield.

 _We should stop, get some snacks for that beast of yours._ The Machine rattles off nearby pit stops for food. You go to inform Shaw of the choices, but she’s already switching lanes and turning into a gas station off the side of the road.

 _Not the best choice,_ Shaw admits, guiding the car into one of the stations, _but the car needs gas._

—

_The Machine couldn’t have warned us to bring an umbrella or something?_

The gas station provides some cover from the rain, but water still manages to slip through, running down the edge of the roof and hitting the pavement below.

You shiver, move toward the gas station store. You wish the Machine had told you about the downpour; you’re not interested in getting soaked again. But, Shaw is in desperate need of food, even if the option leaves something to be desired.

Well, beggars can’t be choosers.

Shaw takes up the pump for the gas, looks toward you. You jerk your thumb at the sad looking stand on the other end of the station.

_I’ll grab some snacks._

Shaw’s mouth twists, like she knows there isn’t a decent meal in her near future, but she nods anyway, water flicking from her wet hair.

You quickly dash through the rain — it isn’t as bad this time around, since the downpour has _mostly_ passed. But you’re dripping water onto the floor when you enter the store regardless.

The cashier doesn’t say anything when they see you. They merely go back to their phone, tap absently at the screen.

You peruse the shelves, snatching up an assortment of chips and other snacks (you take a bag of Chex Mix for yourself). By the time your arms are laden with a colorful variety of unhealthy food, Shaw is at your side, swiping water from her face.

She gazes at the food in your arms and snorts.

 _I wasn’t sure if you wanted salty or sweet_ , you shrug a shoulder, nearly dislodging a pack of candy from the top of the pile.

Shaw reaches to take some of the food off your hands. _Even with bags, this stuff’s all going to get wet._ She heads toward the counter where the lazing cashier nearly falls off the counter they’re leaning on to scan her items.

The Machine chimes in your ear, and you look around, smirking a little when you see the abandoned umbrella by the door. You dump your haul onto the counter — amused at his bug-eyed expression — and snatch the umbrella from the ground.

Shaw arches a brow. _Did she tell you to take that?_

You lift it, and oh, it’s a big one. You tilt your head over to Shaw, find your smirk widening at her disgruntled look of realization.

_Looks like we’re sharing, Sweetie._

She groans.

(She tries to take the umbrella from you after stuffing one of the bags of snacks into your hand, but you lift the umbrella higher, a pointed look in your eyes.

Shaw nearly growls at the implication, stalking back to the car she parked after she finished filling the gas. You have to break into a light jog to keep her from getting soaked through a third time.)

—

Between moments, you revel in the peace of the scenery. Just for a second, you allow the water to run down your skin, spiral through the waves of your hair.

There’s something so charming about the rainy city at night.

And then it’s over, and you and Shaw pinpoint the number’s location.

—

The number is quick and dirty and _wet_ , and you’re both your own little rainstorms by the time you head back to the car. Shaw grouses about ruining the car again, while you hope you don’t catch a cold.

Your body shudders, and you drag a shaky hand through the soppy mess of your hair.

Shaw blasts the heater.

You look over to her, a helpless smile on your face. _Thank you._

Shaw’s eyes skitter away from yours, and she shrugs. puts the car in motion. _I don’t want to deal with your whiny ass if you get sick._

_Concerned about my ass, Sameen?_

A long, suffering sigh fills the car.

After a beat, you add: _There are better ways to warm up, you know_.

Shaw doesn’t deign to reply (but the car does speed up, and you reach the apartment faster than you expected to).

—

The world slows to a crawl, the rain a distant thrumming beyond the walls, and you tug at each other’s clothes. Unstick the garments and toss them onto the floor in scattered heaps.

Shaw grouses about how you’re going to have to clean up the mess. You swallow her complaints with your lips, cold fingers pressing against her bare skin, and then you’re both too preoccupied with each other to care about anything else.

—

Later, much later, you lay on your stomach, one arm thrown over Shaw’s waist and face pressed to her side, her fingers absently tangled in your disheveled waves of hair.

And oh, you take a moment to absorb the quietness, the stillness

(You don’t typically enjoy it, the silence and how it creeps on you.

It reminds you too much of when Hanna was found missing, reminds you too much of the wall of silence on your right side and the Machine’s absence, reminds you too much of the rawness in your throat and the pain in your hands when Shaw nearly died in front of you.)

But this, this atmosphere that’s untouched and calm, it’s nice. You breathe it in, let your quiet inhale fill your lungs, settle something inside you.

The silence is steady, unwavering, and you let your thoughts slow, let your ear fill with the noise of the world around you: the gentle patter of rain outside, the unobtrusive hum of the Machine in your ear, and Shaw stretched out beside you, chest rising and falling in even breaths.

You hide your smile against her hip and let her fingers carding through your hair lull you to sleep. With her touch and the faint scent of petrichor in the air, the shadows around you falling and folding into themselves, your body uncoils, and you drift off to sleep.


End file.
